


Rain, and the Mistaken Messiah

by Sab



Category: The X-Files
Genre: (Uploaded by Punk), F/M, FUCK YOU, Flounce, Late Night Drunken Phone Calls, No fuck YOU, Rage Quit, Tearful Make Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-09
Updated: 1999-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sab/pseuds/Sab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was his life; this was the shape of it, its cold dark texture. (Uploaded by Punk, from The Sabrary.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain, and the Mistaken Messiah

**Author's Note:**

> This was the very first piece of X-Files fanfiction I ever wrote, back in 1998. I was drunk with Chris Carterian wordy narrative and the purplest prose you've ever seen. But for posterity, I think it belongs here in the Sab collection. Presented intact and unedited.
> 
> Old-school emo MSR, set just after the Diana Fowley arc when Mulder totally dumped Scully and didn't listen to her when she was trying to save the world, and then saved it himself in an obnoxiously heroic Mulder-like fashion acknowledgments: written un-beta'd and before I entered fandom proper, but shortly thereafter and in a life-changing turn of events, I met my best and only runpunkrun.

_True love. Is it really necessary? Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence, like a scandal in Life's highest circles. Perfectly good children are born without its help. It couldn't populate the planet in a million years, it comes along so rarely._

_Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing._

_Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die._  
     - Wislawa Szymborska

*

Affecting her best Hillary Clinton, knotting her fingers and ignoring that damned chewing in her stomach, she lifted her eyes, met Assistant Director Kersh's gaze. "Sir, I wouldn't bet against him," she had said. And all the while, unignorable, martyrdom sang its siren call.

*

There was nothing to eat, and she was too tired to cook. In sweatpants now, and cold, and exhausted she slumped onto the couch, tucked her toes up beneath her and stared blankly at the wall. It was raining again, freezing rain, and the streetlight outside had blown so her only trust of rain in the darkness was the smooth rattling swish of the drops against her window. She was too beat to be depressed, too frustrated to allow herself to wallow. Too hungry and too tired to do anything right now but sit, and stare, and listen to the rain. It had been a long, cranky, bratty week.

The phone rang and she reached for her handset, found it buried in a couch cushion.

"Hello?"

"Dana, hi, it's me," her mother's voice was comforting, its familiar fear-tinged tremor somehow very reassuring.

"Hi mom," Scully said, rolling her head on her shoulders in a vain attempt to wiggle out the knots in her back.

"I just thought I'd check in; I know this has been a rough week back at work and I hadn't heard from you."

"I've been busy. We've had a lot to do now that we're back on the X-Files."

"Don't overwork yourself, Dana. They'll understand if it takes you two a couple of weeks to reacclimatize," Margaret was panicking again, and Scully laughed despite herself.

"I'm fine, mom. I'm just tired. Grateful for a big weekend of nothing."

"You're not going in to work this weekend?" Margaret Scully's surprise caught Scully off-guard. "I'd have thought nothing could keep you two away from the X-Files office until you'd made it your own again."

There was a long pause, and Scully felt a headache tug at her temples.

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," Margaret said firmly, but Scully could hear the doubt, the suspicion behind her voice. "You deserve a rest."

"Mom - " Scully began, and then sighed. "I, uh, I miss Queequeg."

"Oh!" Relief echoed. "I got scared there. Yes, yes of course you do. He was a good dog."

"He, uh, he was a good dog," Scully echoed dumbly, staring now. Of course she wasn't working this weekend. But her mother, her confidante, all of her family left that really understood, didn't know. Didn't know about the events that preceded Mulder and Scully's reassignment to the X-Files. Didn't know any of it.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Margaret tried again.

"Yes, mom," Scully insisted, letting a smile play across her face for her mother's nervousness.

"Okay. Well, you know I'm always here if you want to talk, so just call me."

"Of course. I love you, mom."

"I love you too, honey. Say hello to Fox for me."

Scully chewed her lip, debating. "Mom, uh, Mulder and I - " she started explaining, then changed her mind. "I will."

"You what?" Margaret wasn't going to let her off that easily.

"We're, uh, we're experiencing some professional differences. It's nothing."

"Professional differences? Dana, are you thinking of leaving the FBI?"

Now where did that come from, Scully wondered. Was she? "No. No, of course not. We've just had some disagreements, lately. It's nothing."

"You said that already," Margaret was more forceful now. "Dana, what's going on?"

"I'm tired. I, uh, I can't talk about this now, mom. But really, don't worry about me. I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Okay. I'll trust you because I've always known you to be strong, and I know there's no problem you can't handle. But I'm here if you need me," Margaret spoke slowly, deliberately.

"I know, mom. Good night." Scully clicked her receiver back in its handset and buried her face in her hands, raking slender fingers through hair that desperately wanted washing.

 

She didn't know how long she'd been asleep, but the rain had stopped when the phone rang again. In the darkness she fumbled for it, clicked it on and muttered a sleepy, cotton-mouthed "hello."

Mulder's voice woke her out of her torpor and she smacked for the light switch on the wall, casting the room in blinding yellow. "Scully, it's me. Did I wake you up?"

"Yes, Mulder. You did," she said, straightening her spine, daring herself to open her eyes in the brightness. "What's going on?"

Over the line she heard rustling, distant voices, cars passing. "Uh, nothing, really. I just, uh -"

"Mulder, where are you?"

"I'm downstairs. I'm outside your building." His words were slurred.

"You've been drinking."

"Yes, I have."

"Mulder, go home," Scully was wide awake now, seething with frustration. How dare he?

"No. No, Scully, I want to talk to you. I need to talk to you. Can I please come up?"

"No, you can't, Mulder. It's Friday night, and I'm going back to sleep. This is my time. I will see you in the office on Monday; I'm trusting that what you have to say can wait until then." She was determined, now, though a nagging part of her wanted him to come up, wanted to see him grovel, wanted to see him shivering-wet from the rain.

There was a long pause, cars rushing by splashing puddles, screeching tires Scully could hear on the line. Mulder spoke. "You're right. This was stupid. I'm sorry, Scully." Mulder chewed pain, and she could hear it.

"Good night, Mulder," she said, firmly.

"Good night."

Click.

 

Two hours later, she was in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She was too tired to sleep, her mind whirling with the events of the past week, with the drunken phone call she couldn't shake. How dare he, she thought again, trying to summon up her fury, but all she tasted was bile and regret.

Something had gone terribly wrong, and with all her power, all her science and all her vast intellect, she couldn't fix it. And that made her angrier, and sadder than she'd ever been. Six years of her life she'd spent with him in a partnership closer than most marriages she knew, and to show for it she had nothing but scars. Six years of her life she'd chased him, chased his ghosts, running blindly in the dark, secure in nothing but the fact that what she was doing was right, that she trusted him without question, that his demons were worth fighting. And to emerge from it battle-scarred and terrified, to emerge from it knowing, as she did, now, that his demons were real, that the evils he suspected were out there, were haunting her even now, was more than she could bear. And to emerge from it yanked free from the science-truths she'd always depended on, yanked free from any system she could firmly plant her feet in was frightening, so frightening that she locked her doors at night, not against those evil demons, now, but against her own history of false truths, truths that would have killed her had he not steered her away from them.

She shivered, pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and sat up, her back propped against the wall, staring out at nothing. Six years with him, and to emerge from it utterly alone, fighting demons she couldn't name, fighting them without him, now, brought tears to her eyes. Not because he was anything special - her mind's voice formed complete sentences, here, not stray thoughts: methinks the lady doth protest too much - not because he was so damned great, but because it simply wasn't practical. It wasn't productive, his messy unformed apologies, that "please talk to me" lost look in his eyes. His tactful avoidance of her since last week's incident, his downcast, hangdog, idiotic shadowed guilt. He was behaving like a child. He was wasting her time. He had wasted her life.

"Damn it," she said aloud, swiping a hand across her face. Damn it, Scully, he abandoned you, don't cry for him now, he's not worth it, she thought. In the dark, alone, she caught herself finding shapes in the shadows on the wall. Seeing ghosts now, is that it, Dana? A dead shark, washed up on shore. Two trucks colliding. She stared down at the blanket and counted stray strings. Real. Talliable. Practical. In the dark, alone, staring at the blanket now she caught herself thinking seriously for the first time this week about leaving it all behind. But she knew she couldn't, not for him, this time, but for those dark truths she had to fight. She'd thought about it before, but she'd always stayed, always for him, always there for him because she knew he needed her, he trusted her, he'd be lost without her. This time she would stay, not for him - that arrogant rat bastard could leave the Bureau, for all she cared - but for words he'd spoken to her once, words she'd echoed without realizing what they meant, really. "If I quit now, they win."

 

Saturday it rained again, that eager grey afternoon rain that spelled matinees, soup lunches, shopping trips with girlfriends. Scully slept till noon.

She awoke hungry and headached, surprised to find her eyes swollen and her pillow damp, surprised to learn that she'd cried in her sleep. Barefoot, she padded to the kitchen. She'd caught something out of the corner of her eye, something that registered only after her first sip of coffee, and mug in hand she crossed the living room and picked the thing up, a folded piece of paper that had been slipped under her door. She opened it up.

Scrawled in Mulder's handwriting were the words "don't be scared."

She crumpled it up, shaking her head. "Don't be scared. Of what, Mulder? Of C.G.B. Spender and his cronies? Okay, I won't, I'll just bring them down along with everyone else who's responsible for the deaths of innocent people. Unlike you, Mulder, I don't "spook" easily." She tossed the crumpled thing into her garbage. "Don't be scared of you, Mulder? Of the fact that I have a partner who "sleeps with the enemy" instead of watching my back? Don't worry. I'm a pretty good shot. I can take care of myself."

Kicking her feet into slippers she headed for the door to go downstairs for the mail.

When she opened the door, she jumped, gasped despite herself. Mulder was sitting in the hallway, waiting, and he smiled up at her, pulled himself up to his feet.

"I'm, uh, hey, Scully, I'm sorry to surprise you like this; I pushed that note under your door so you wouldn't be startled when you saw me."

"Mulder, the note said 'don't be scared,' not, 'I'm sitting in your hallway.'" She folded her arms across her chest, strangely self-conscious out here with him in a t-shirt and no bra.

Mulder looked puzzled. "Oh, I guess I thought you'd understand. We're usually so good at that, uh, wavelength thing."

Mulder wiggled his fingers, imitating the brainwaves passing between his head and Scully's. Inexplicably, she regretted not getting the meaning of his message, she felt cheated, lost. And she damned herself for the regret.

"If we were really on the same wavelength you'd have known that I was looking forward to my weekend alone. I need some time to recoup, Mulder." Well said, she commended herself.

"I know," he said, looking down. "But I've been doing a lot of soul-searching this week, and we haven't spent much time together at work and I..."

He was reaching. He was hurting, and she knew it. And she relished it. But even that, that little flash of thrill told her this was way, way beyond professional, way into the realm of personal, and too murky with emotion to be useful or productive. She was a scientist; she would solve the problem scientifically. Isolate the cause and work toward a solution. And in this case, despite her anger (and, strangely, with an odd little desire she hated herself for having), this included inviting him in.

"I'm getting the mail," she said. Mulder cocked his head to the side. "There's coffee in the kitchen," she waved a hand toward her apartment. With an almost imperceptible relax of relief, Mulder nodded his assent and made his way into her living room.

When she returned she walked past him, ducked into her bedroom and pulled on a bra and a sweatshirt, raked her fingers through her hair and sized herself up in the mirror. She looked beat, exhausted and old. The omnipresent circles under her eyes were dark today, her lips were pale and chapped, her cheeks hollow. She gave a passing thought to getting dressed, to putting on makeup, to taking a much-needed shower, but that could wait. Mulder was not here to bask in her beauty - that much she'd learned from six years with him, with a man who only looked up from his work for the occasional extracurricular bimbo - he was here to beg for forgiveness. And she could hear him out without makeup on. Without warning her mind touched on Diana Fowley - That Woman - and Scully tore her gaze from the mirror before she would allow that stray thought to influence her. That Woman could do what she pleased with Mulder, hell, Mulder could do what he pleased with That Woman. Scully was here for the work. Get it done. Get it done. She repeated that mantra to herself as she paced down the hall toward him. She sat on the chair opposite him, curled her legs up beneath her. He cut her off before she could start speaking.

"Scully, I -" he shifted in his seat, staring at her, looking as beaten as she felt. "First, I, uh, wanted to thank you for supporting me. With Kersh. Last week. I never really had a chance to say that, and I know you didn't have to do it, so I just -"

She appreciated the sentiment, and she took a sip from her coffee, cold now, and squinted at Mulder over the mug rim before responding. "You were right, Mulder. You were right all along, about the conspiracy, about everything. A lot of innocent people died."

"And some not so innocent," Mulder said.

"Yes."

"But at least they'll acknowledge the work now, at least they'll start paying attention to the fact that -"

"Agent Spender died for our work, Mulder," Scully said. "He's the one who deserves your gratitude, not me."

Mulder looked up at the ceiling for a long moment. "A lot of people died, as you said. We could have stopped it. I could have stopped it."

This was what she had counted on, and she knew he needed to get it out, needed some reassurance for her, a pat on the ego before they could begin work. And because she knew him so well, because their lives were so irretrievably enmeshed, she would give it to him. Let him vent. "We did stop it, Mulder. We exposed them. They won't be able to perform experiments on innocent people anymore. We won, Mulder." Scully's voice was emotionless; she locked her eyes with his. Get it done, get it over with, let him get it out, then tell him it's unacceptable, tell him you won't take it anymore. For the sake of the partnership. For the sake of the work.

"I, uh, I've been doing some thinking this week. About what happened. About us."

Scully felt something rise in her throat at those last words, at the perpetually ignored "us" Mulder was addressing. She shoved the emotion back down to the pit of her stomach, swallowing hard.

"I believe," Mulder went on, "that we could have done more. We could have gotten to them sooner, could have saved Cassandra Spender's life, maybe all their lives. We wasted time. I mean, I, uh, wasted time."

"Yes, you did, Mulder. I'm not going to lie to you," the words started spilling out of Scully's mouth before she could consider them, stop them. "You wanted to trust her, Diana, Agent Fowley, you wanted to trust her so much that it blinded you against everything that was happening around you." Something here made Scully wish she had vacuumed, made her think of the dishes in her sink. This was her Saturday, and she didn't want to spend it hashing out the details of her partner's relationship with That Woman. Get it done. Get it done.

"Yes, it did," Mulder said. "But when hasn't that been the case? I mean, really, Scully, when haven't I been blinded by some personal crusade, when haven't I let my personal feelings get in the way of our work?"

But he was confessing, now, and that shook her. The conversation was changing, the room was changing. Scully looked at him, chewing on what he had just laid, so baldly, on the table. She sighed.

"Your personal feelings were our work, Mulder. You wanted to know why they took your sister. If you hadn't been so driven, so sure about her abduction we never would have found the men who took her. It was always the strength of your beliefs that drove the X-Files, that kept you certain you were on the right path."

"Yes, but at what expense?" Mulder nearly shouted, shaking his head. "They took my sister. They killed my father, and your sister when we started investigating it. They experimented on you, they gave you cancer, Scully. They scared us out of our homes, drove us out of our jobs, ruined any chance for us to lead normal lives!" Mulder paused long enough to catch his breath. "I, uh, I never wanted a normal life. I never expected one. But you, you deserved so much better than what I put you through, and for what? So I could finally stand up and say, 'see? I was right!'? Is it that important?"

Scully was thrown. She summoned every bit of composure she had and ordered herself to tackle this thing scientifically. Productively. Practically. When what she really wanted to do was break a window, shout out to the injustice of it all. "You tell me, Mulder. Is it that important?"

Mulder met her gaze again, his eyes steeped with pain, with remorse. "That's what I've been asking myself all week. And I've decided that it isn't. I mean, all along I've told myself I'm indispensable, I'm this lone messiah who's been misunderstood, who's the only one who can save us from Armageddon at the hands of these unpunishable men. But it's a lie, Scully. As soon as I heard you tell Kersh that you -" Mulder shook his head. "It's a lie. It's always been a lie. No one's indispensable. Back there, back then, you knew Diana was working with the syndicate. I didn't. You knew that they were taking Cassandra Spender away and I didn't listen to you. I got her killed, Scully! I got her killed, and I got her son killed, all because of my own damned ego!"

He was shouting but his voice was cracking; he had no standing reserve. His eyes were sad, now but not with that familiar, tired Samantha-sadness, nor even the sadness of defeat, the martyr-sadness of the past week. The sad now was for Scully, this time, she realized, and it gave her a chill. He was speaking, now, to her, instead of at her as was so customary.

Scully resisted the urge to leap to his side, to hold him in her arms, to tell him everything would be okay, she forgave him, he was wrong. But she knew that, in a way, in an unignorable way, he was right. And everything would not be okay. But the next words out of his mouth made her blood run cold.

"I'm quitting the bureau." Mulder was looking at the floor, now. "I can't take any more blood on my hands. I can't risk your life anymore and I can't ask you to trust me when I don't trust me."

That arrogant rat bastard could leave the bureau, for all she cared, Scully thought, remembering her fury the night before. But hearing him speak the words threw her into the terrifying and unenviable position of having to fight herself, fight all the beliefs she was so sure she stood for. Because that arrogant rat bastard - she fought tears - was all she had. And his crusade - she hated herself, hated him, hated the world, hated everything - was the only thing in the universe worth fighting for. For the good of humanity, bless its dark and ignorant heart.

"Mulder. Mulder, you don't know what you're saying," she began, weakly, she knew.

"Actually, Scully, for the first time in a long time, I know exactly what I'm saying." Mulder smiled, that pitiful childish grin she knew so well. "You can't argue with me, because you know I'm right. Maybe at some point, a long time ago, I was an asset to the FBI. But now I'm a danger, to the bureau, and to my partner. And that's unacceptable. You know that, Scully. As a doctor, and a field agent, you know I'm right."

Scully, abandoning any arguments she might have had against it, dove from her chair and sat beside him on the couch. She took his hands in hers and stared into his face for a long moment. She would not get the chance to speak her piece, not today. But that sensation -- one that usually drove her red with frustration at Mulder's myopia, at Mulder's refusal to acknowledge her, or her pain - this time made sense. This one was his, truly. And she would be the friend he needed her to be. For his sake, and for hers. Because he was right, this time.

"Don't tell me you haven't been asking for this moment for a long time now, Scully," Mulder said. "Come on. I've always been a pain in the ass." He grinned, then looked away, but not before Scully could see the tears in his eyes. She gripped his hands tightly, and couldn't think of a thing to say.

Mulder slipped from her grasp and pulled himself to his feet. "I've, uh, I've got to go." He started for the door.

"Go where?" Scully said softly, her voice cracking.

Mulder turned. "I'm not sure yet. But I think it's better, I, uh, think it would be a good idea if we didn't see each other for a while. Give us both a chance to start a new life."

Scully stared blankly. He was right, she knew. She felt dead. "You know you can always call me," she said weakly.

"Maybe this time you'll get a partner who will let you have the desk," Mulder said over a lump in his throat, working hard on a laugh, "I bet that will be a welcome change."

Scully stood, met him in the open doorway. "Yeah," she said.

"I know secretly you've always wanted to get rid of me, team up with someone who doesn't keep his collection of, uh, art videos in the office drawer."

"Mulder, I - " Scully began.

"Bye, Scully," Mulder said. "Have a nice, normal life. Please."

Before she could speak he was out the door.

Scully stood in the doorway for what seemed like ages before shutting and locking the door and crossing, entranced, to the couch. She knew he was right, he'd made a compelling argument and for once she believed it. Usually Mulder would state a case and she'd argue with her intellect, though her heart would cry out, ignored by common sense, that he was right. This time, though her intellect insisted that his decision was appropriate, though she knew without question that his judgement was clear, her heart ached. For him to be wrong, for once. For herself to be. She sat down again, unblinking, her eyes dry, her head pounding, her hands clammy and shaking uncontrollably. She sat there in silence for nearly an hour before the tears came.

 

Later. Nighttime. She woke up on the floor, disgusted for some reason with the sound of the unceasing rain. She woke up with a certainty; she woke up restless and confident, anxious and restless and determined. This was bigger than her, bigger than her selfish competitive need for rightness, even bigger than her need for scientific answers. This was about blood, now, and about a marriage of minds that was stronger than the sum of its parts. That she knew. That she was right about. So she was going to do this - now, now, there's no time to waste, she had to go now! - not for herself (was she lying? she didn't know.) but for mistakes left uncorrected, for loose ends dangling like bad grammar. For forgiveness.

With a heart hardened against her own uncertainty, she raced to his door.

He looked older than he had that afternoon, more spent, more scared. She ached at the sight of him so thoroughly beaten by his own life, so convinced of its futility, so certain that his was the touch of death.

"Scully," he said. She blinked up at him. "I, uh, I thought we agreed that -"

"Mulder, we have to talk," she said.

"I can't. Please, Scully, I really have to be alone right now." Mulder pushed at the door as if to shut it in her face.

"Mulder." She pressed a palm against the door, surprised at the pressure he was applying to prevent her from keeping it open. "You're being selfish."

"No, Scully. Staying in the FBI, staying with you would be selfish. For the first time, I'm not thinking of myself, I'm not thinking of Samantha or my father, and I know this is the right choice."

Scully let go of the door but it stayed open while Mulder searched her face for some sort of assurance that he was right. She wasn't going to give it, though she knew he was. She wasn't going to give it, not out here in the hallway, wet from the rain. Not yet.

"Can I, uh, come in for a minute? Please?" She looked up at him unblinking, sucking her teeth. He sighed.

"I, I don't think it's a good idea," he said, finally.

"Why, Mulder? What are you afraid of? Because if you're afraid I'll talk you out of this then that means there's some part of you that isn't convinced you've made the right decision."

"No. I'm, uh," Mulder looked at his socked feet, shuffled them nervously. "I'm afraid talking to you will..." He looked at her for a long moment. "Okay. Come in."

 

The door clicked behind them and Scully turned the light on before Mulder could protest. Shaking off her rain-spattered overcoat she hung it on the back of a chair, sat on the couch, watching him.

He fidgeted, unsure what to do with himself and she watched him squirm a moment before saying, "Sit down."

He did, at the opposite end of the couch, looking anxious.

"You've left me in a difficult place," she said, meeting his eye. "You've left me with a lot of responsibility, responsibility I'm not sure I can handle."

"You can handle it, Scully. You always could. You're stronger than I am."

"That might be true," she allowed. "But you were always ready to face the X-Files alone; you worked on them alone before I ever showed up. They're your crusade, Mulder, not mine; I don't have them in my blood the way you do." She was baiting him, waiting for him to argue, to insist that she did, that the cancer the syndicate had given her was very literally in her blood, a part of her, a threat to her own life. But he looked away.

"You're right. I know. I'm sorry. You should request a transfer, go back to Quantico, go be a great doctor somewhere. It's not fair for me to leave you my dirty laundry, and there's no reason for you to have to take it."

No reason for me to have to take it? Mulder, they gave me cancer! They killed my sister! You arrogant fuck... "Oh," she said.

"Oh?"

"Nothing, it's just that I guess I expected you to argue. I'm just surprised, that's all." She chewed her lip, her stomach churning. She had come in here promising not to make this about her, promising that this would be about the work, the work Mulder needed to do, the work she couldn't do without his help. But now, selfishly, she knew, she needed some assurance from him that he knew how much of her life she'd given over to that work, and how much of her life that work had taken away. But he didn't know. He never knew.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you expect me to argue?"

Scully took a deep breath. Timing, sensibility, tick-tock her life routine had taken a turn for the weird and there was little she could do about it. But this could be the last conversation she would have with this man, and she wasn't ready for it to be over in one smirk.

"This is so easy for you, Mulder. You make one mistake and you run away from it all. One mistake proves the fallibility of the great Fox Mulder and you decide that you're flawed work."

Mulder clenched his teeth. "That's not fair, Scully. That's not nice and it's not fair."

"But it's true. You'd gotten so used to being right all the time, and so used to being misunderstood that you let your ego switch to autopilot. Well guess what, Mulder? You are flawed. You're not the messiah, and this is not the second coming. This is a job, and you're not living up to your responsibility." Scully leaned forward, shifting in her seat.

Mulder rose. "Please, Scully, I can't listen to this right now. Don't you think I've beaten myself up enough already?"

She rose too, pulling herself up to her full height. "No, Mulder, I don't. I think you've fed yourself some stock lines about martyrdom and you've let yourself take the easy way out."

"Easy? Scully, you think this is easy for me? Leaving my job, leaving everything I've ever cared about? You think this is a joke to me?" His voice was rising, and the power in it sent a shiver down her spine. For a moment she saw a vision of him hitting her, throwing her, that trembling coil of testosterone breaking loose and bruising her, making her bleed. She was terrified.

"When I said that the X-Files wasn't my life, I really expected you to argue, Mulder. Look at me! Why the hell do you think I'm out here on this rainy night? Do you really think you're so seductive that I came here just to beg you to stay with me? I came here for the work, Mulder! The work needs you, these men who killed my sister and made me sick, they need to be brought to justice and I can't do that alone!" She was shouting, had retreated from him without realizing it and was standing in the corner of the room, shaking.

"What, you baited me?"

"Maybe I did, Mulder, that's not the point..." she began.

"Yes it is the point, Scully!" he hollered, scrabbling for his jacket which was thrown across an armchair. He straightened, trained his weapon on Scully.

She went white. "What, you're going to shoot me?"

"Get out of my house! Damn it Scully, you come here and play mindgames with me, well fuck you! Get out of my house!" His voice was strained as he screamed, his throat raw.

"You're going to shoot me, Mulder?" she said again, louder, approaching him. The gun trembled in his hand but he never took its sight off her as she circled the coffee table, crossed to him.

"Get out of my house! Get out of my house! You don't know what this is about, Scully, you never understood how important this was to me! They took my sister when she was too young to do anything about it, they took her away from me and I couldn't stop it. I failed, I screwed up! Yes, of course I'm flawed, Scully! That's what this is about, what this has always been about!" He was backing away from her now as she circled him. "And you never understood; you come in here criticizing me and accusing me of being megalomaniacal but I can't do anything! I got her killed, Scully! Samantha, Cassandra, all of them! I'd probably get you killed too but I'm smart enough finally to realize what an idiot I've been!"

She was face to face with him now and she raised a hand to wrest the weapon free. "Give me the gun, Mulder."

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he shrieked, his voice cracking.

She reached up, slowly, ready to clap a hand on his wrist and lower the weapon. He stood tense, shaking with fury.

She grabbed for the gun and he wrested it free, threw a forearm back in her direction catching her in the jaw and sending her reeling backward.

Clenching her teeth she caught her balance and dove at him again and he let loose his arm and pushed her down, hard.

She bit her lip and it was bleeding. It was bleeding, she noticed, idly, as she sat sprawled on the floor looking up at him. He was holding the gun on her but tears were streaming down his face and his lower lip trembled and his finger, she noticed, wasn't even on the trigger but he gripped the butt of the gun like he might fling it through the glass out the window, like he might use it to bludgeon her, or himself.

"Are you done?" she asked, wiping the blood on the back of her hand.

"Please go," he whispered. "Please leave me alone now."

She pulled herself to her feet. "No, Mulder. After that outburst I am definitely not leaving you alone. So please put the gun away and sit down so we..."

"I'm sorry, Scully," Mulder set the weapon on the table. "I was way out of line. I'm okay."

"You're not okay, Mulder," she said. "Sit down. We'll talk about this."

"No, Scully," he said, managing a small smile. "This doesn't concern you. I'm touched that you came over, really, but this is not about you, it's about me, and some stuff I need to work out on my own."

"You're leaving the X-Files, Mulder. This is very much about me." Scully said firmly.

"No it's just..." he smiled at her, something patronizing and cool in his eyes, "I really appreciate all the work you've done, and the way you've helped me with the X-Files, and I want you to know that I know that it's taken its toll on you, and I see that and respect it. But this is my life, Scully. I mean I..." he nodded a little, touching her arm. She was breathless. "I couldn't have asked for a better partner, really. But we don't owe each other anything, anymore; I don't know, maybe we never did. Which is not to say," he laughed, patting her on the back and urging her toward the door, "that it hasn't been fun working together. It has, really. But there are other things we need to do now, other places we need to go. Separately. Sometimes that just happens."

She had stopped listening, and for a minute there she was certain her heart had stopped beating. She looked at him. He looked like Mulder. "It's been fun working together..." were the last words she'd heard and they echoed like a death knell, like parental punishment, like an introduction to hell. Slowly, deliberately, she slipped free of his touch and turned to face him.

"It's been fun working together," she said flatly.

"Hasn't it? I mean, maybe fun isn't the best word, but I wanted to make sure you knew how much I appreciate..."

"The way I helped you with the X-Files."

"Among other things. The way you've kept me sane," he smiled. "But this now is something that doesn't concern you."

"But you're touched that I came over."

He took her shoulders in his hands and beamed down at her through the drying tears in his eyes. "Very."

She took a deep breath, tasted the blood on her lip, wiped it clean with a hand while never taking her eyes off his face. His smile made her skin crawl but she took a long moment to regain her composure, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, staring unblinking at his idiotic smirk. He looked like Mulder, that same face she'd seen every day for the last six years, that same swaggering confidence, that same singular megalomanical vanity, that same epic hero-complex wrapped in the form of a man with not enough character and not enough chin to do it justice. He made her sick.

And in an instant she had torn free of his grip and she threw herself at him, pounding, punching, hammering his body with hers and screaming, shouting, "fuck you! Fuck you you arrogant fuck! I don't care what you think you're going through!" He was trying to laugh, trying to duck free of her flailing limbs but she was everywhere at once, she smacked him across the face, railed fist after fist at him as he retreated, sat down on the couch.

She grabbed him by the collar, wrested him onto the floor and kicked and punched and bit, gasping and shouting "fuck you fuck you fuck you! It was fun working together my ass! How dare you think you can dismiss me so easily you asshole, how dare you?" He was trying to crawl out from under her but she had superhuman strength now, she was all rage and fury and heat. "How dare you! I don't care what you think you have to offer to mankind, I don't care what you've been through or you think you've been through or you want to make sure everybody knows you've been through! You're no hero, you fucking bastard, and I've wasted six years of my life with you! I don't give a shit about you or the fact that they took your fucking stupid sister away!"

She caught herself. Oh, Dana, that was wrong. Mulder stared uncomprehending at her as she straddled him on the floor, panting and sweating and red-faced with fury. She crawled free.

Mulder pulled himself to his feet and strode away without looking back, and she followed to find him in the kitchen in the dark, his face to the wall, breathing through tears.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Fuck you. That was a terrible thing to say," he muttered. "Please leave now."

She stood for a long moment in the dark. "I'm sorry," she said again.

"Okay, Scully, okay," he said, never turning to face her. "Okay. Fine. I need to be alone right now."

Her heart was breaking, she could feel her chest tightening, goosebumps rising on her skin, a headache pounding her temples as she stood immobile, staring at his trembling frame. He leaned into the crook of his elbow, collapsed face first against the wall. She stood stock still, afraid to move. There, in the dark of the kitchen, her cheeks flushed and burning, her skin cold, her body taut and terrified and shuddering in the chill, she knew with everything like certainty that she had ruined her life.

Her rational side spoke quietly, told her to leave, to give him time, she could make this right, go home, go to sleep, but she cursed its nagging. Science-Scully, rational-Scully, she could be silenced forever if this was where she wound up. She hated herself for hurting him, knew she'd hurt him many times before. He didn't know her, didn't respect what she had gone through, but in her own confidence and swagger she forgot to realize that she didn't know what he was going through either.

She was stronger than he was, but she forgot that, too often assumed that he had the backbone she did, that he was able to go home after a hard day and reclaim a little corner of sanity for himself. As she could, as she always could. Standing here in his kitchen in the dark at the end of the longest recorded day, she knew that he never had. And that he never could. And that, by treating him like someone who had, like she did, somewhere to run to for safety, somewhere to run to outside of the fear-steeped world of the X-Files, of conspiracy and evil and death, she had, skipping gaily like a fool, chased him to the gates of hell.

This was his life; this was the shape of it, its cold dark texture. And she, with her ill-chosen words ("Damn it, Scully, you're an idiot!" she was humiliated, hated herself) had reduced it to a day job.

She took a step toward him and he tensed; she could see it. "Please go," he said through clenched teeth.

"Mulder, I..."

"Scully, look, if you're waiting around for my forgiveness you're not going to get it," he muttered almost inaudibly. "But I can't talk to you right now."

She took another step toward him, reached out and touched his shoulder. He shrugged it free and she stared at her hand for a moment, hanging in the air as if it had somehow failed her. She took a breath. "Mulder, I am so, so sorry. I didn't realize...I guess I never realized how much the X-Files were a part of your life. How much they consumed you."

"They are my life, Scully. This is my life."

"I know that, now. I mean, I knew it all along but I never really let it sink in. I always assumed...I don't know. I always assumed that you were more like me."

Mulder inhaled sharply, exhaled tremulously over stifled sobs. Scully stood not breathing, her hand hovering out in front of her, waiting for a reply. None came.

Weeks later, moments later, Mulder choked with the pitiful human sound of crying.

Her heart was breaking and she couldn't take it any more. She took the last step toward him, curled her arms around his waist from behind and buried her face in his shoulder blades, clutching his warm, trembling frame to her, digging her nails into his chest, fearing, with the realest fear she'd ever known, that he might suddenly disappear from her.

He didn't shrug her free but he didn't respond, either; for a long while tears streamed down his cheeks, his neck as he pressed his forehead into the wall and sobbed. Finally, when it seemed no more tears would come, when everything that seemed like a bad dream revealed itself too present, he turned around, wrapped his sinewy arms around Scully and pulled her to his chest.

"It's okay," he whispered as he felt her heaving, heavy with tears, gripping him with everything she had. "It's okay." He kissed her on the head, and she buried herself in him, taking comfort in his human, greasy smell, and comfort in the tight flesh of his back where her fingernails bit.

With effort she pulled herself away and looked up at him, cracking a small smile, an accidental laugh. "I'm so sorry, Mulder."

"It's okay. It's, uh, we both went a little psycho, there, I think. Demon possession, maybe?" He grinned down at her, wiped a tear from her cheek with a thumb.

"Maybe," she said, smiling back.

"So, uh, why did you come here in the first place?" Mulder asked. Scully turned to free herself from his embrace but he wasn't going to let her go.

"I just wanted to make sure that you knew what you were doing," she said.

"And I'm sure you're satisfied that I'm absolutely on top of things now, right?" Mulder winked.

Scully allowed herself a last moment, enjoying the weight and warmth of his arms around her before she ducked out of his hold, stepped away and looked at him. "You need some time. We both need some time."

"You're right," he said. "I'm, uh, I'm glad you came over."

Her eyes went wide for a moment at the irony of his statement, and she nodded. "I should go. Get some sleep. We both should."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. We can, uh, talk tomorrow," Mulder nodded. He followed her through the living room to the door and opened it for her.

"Good night, Mulder," she said.

"Night Scully."

She waited for him to turn around, close the door behind him, but instead he watched her, unblinking, waiting in turn for her to walk away. Finally she laughed aloud, a real laugh.

"I gotta go," she said.

"Okay," Mulder said, grinning. "Go."

She stood in the doorway for another long moment. And then something inside her snapped and rational-Scully was thrown, bound, gagged and silenced. Something else was at work, here, some pained blue-red emotion that begged to be noticed, finally, for the first time in her life, to be acknowledged. She blinked up at Mulder. "Who am I kidding?" she said, turning her palms up. With a chuckle he pushed the door open and gently ushered her back inside.

 

"That was -" she said.

"Do you want -" he said at the same time. She laughed, looked at the floor. "Go ahead," he said.

"I was just going to say that that was a horrible thing I said to you, and I'm sorry."

"I know, Scully," he said. "It's just that -"

"What?" she asked.

"I mean, of course I'm flawed. I let them take her. And just when I thought I was finally in a place where I could take control, I, uh, I let them take you. I've never forgiven myself for that."

Scully looked at him. "You've, uh, you've never told me that before," she said softly.

"I figured you knew," he said. "I mean, it's the greatest irony in the world, or certainly the worst poetic justice: I lose one person I care about, and then, in the very act of trying to stop the men who did it, I, uh, lose another one."

Mulder looked away hard, crossed and sat down on the couch. He was actively not meeting Scully's eyes and she understood it, just as she understood the weight of the words he had just spoken. She followed him and sat down beside him, took his hand.

"You didn't lose me, Mulder," she said. "You saved me."

With as-yet-in-her-life-inexperienced-terror she reached out a hand, took his chin and turned his face toward hers. Her stomach was leaping, her lips trembling, her body coiled, burning and tense with something somewhere between fear and desire. His eyes were wide, almost incredulous as she pulled his face toward hers.

He reached a hand, cradled the warm shape of the back of her skull and she looked at him, blurry and huge, inches from her face. And with some sort of knowledge that her life was about to change forever, she slipped forward into his kiss.

 

She was flooded. The taste of him, the smell, the warm-hot shape of him beside her, his arms around her lead-heavy and safe, comforting, right, the images of him laughing, of his grey-green eyes looking down at her bemused, amused, the sharp lines of his features (his small, beautiful sliver of chin!) shimmered in her memory as he pulled her still closer to him, her small frame fitting perfectly in the curve of his arm, the arcing embrace of his chest. She had kissed before, and she had been kissed. But never in her life - her groin tingled, she felt drunk, she felt drugged, she felt like she was dead and floating somewhere where sense and logic had been replaced by the incredible lightness of him! -had she known passion like this, had she known the moment where inhibitions flee in terror in the shadow of a desire so strong, and so right, she felt dwarfed by its power. Something argued inside her and she shut it up with a glare, not now, not now. Now she would melt into him and for the first time in a long time, she would feel completely safe.

He pulled away, gently, smiling at her. He kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose. She stroked the inside of his arm, traced the veined muscles down his wrist to his hand, which she gripped in hers, squeezed.

"Dana," he began. She laughed inwardly: trust Mulder to muddy this up with talk. And then she laughed at herself because there was nothing she herself wanted more than to get this out in words, to understand, to name. Meeting of two overintellectual nutcases, she thought. Perfect.

"Mm hm?" she said.

"This is, uh..." there was something wild about his eyes, something devilish and she liked it, feared it.

"Yes it is," she said with a smile.

"Are you, uh, are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes, Mulder," she said. "I'm fine. I'm better than fine."

But there was something different in his eyes now, and she searched his face, looking for clarity. "What, what is it, Mulder?"

"I've, uh," he looked at the floor, chuckled weakly. "I've thought about doing that, about that happening, for a long time. That."

"Really?" she said.

"Well, not all the time, usually I was just glad you were around, you trusted me, you were my partner, you know, you had my back. But, yeah, every now and again I wondered. About us."

"That makes sense," she said. "We're two normal, relatively attractive, red-blooded human animals who get along fairly well. We've known one another for six years. It's only human."

"Did you? Ever? Think about it? About what would happen?"

She looked away, blushing, but never let go of his hand. "Of course I have, Mulder."

"So why didn't you ever do anything?" he asked.

"Why didn't you?" she turned to face him, amused.

"I don't know. You're always so professional, it seemed, I don't know, sacrilegious maybe. Like I would be tampering with a good thing. Like I'd offend you or something."

She nodded. "You might have, yes. I'm not sure I would have known what to do if you decided to up and kiss me in the middle of a case or something. I'd probably have freaked out. Yes." He looked like Mulder, familiar, terrifying.

"And now?" Mulder was searching.

"Now what?"

"Why is now any different? Why is this okay for us now?"

She thought for a moment. "I don't know. I, uh," she looked at the floor. "I came over here tonight because I thought it was the last time I'd get to talk to you. I thought I was losing you forever, and that scared me. It, uh, scared me in a way I didn't expect it to, more than I expected it to. It was a surprise."

Mulder slid his other hand on top of Scully's holding his, stroked her arm, the back of her neck, her cheek with a slender, exploring finger. She trembled.

"Sometimes I, uh, I forget I have a body," he said. "You know?"

"Yes," she said, fighting unsuccessfully the urge to moan with pleasure and hunger. "You forget how important, uh, this is."

"I haven't done this in a very long time," Mulder said, clearing his throat.

"It's funny," Scully said. "I mean, I guess I know that, practically, you know, intellectually..." she was whispering now, floating somewhere. She let her eyes close. "But I think I always thought of you as some sort of Casanova, some sort of sex fiend. I don't know, the videos, maybe, the fact that every woman we meet eyes you desirously..."

"Eyes me desirously?" Mulder laughed, toying idly with the top button on Scully's shirt. She tried not to think about it; she could still pretend this was professional, this was heat-of-the-moment, if she didn't let herself think about it. Laugh it off, Scully.

"Come on," she sighed. "Name me one woman who's not a sucker for tall and Teutonic."

"This nose is hardly Teutonic," Mulder said, clearly stunned by the information.

"Still," Scully said. "I know it's true. You drop 'em like flies. Seriously. Name me one woman whose breath doesn't catch when you walk in the room."

He pulled back a bit, cocked his head to the side and scrutinized her. "Dana Katherine Scully," he said with a grin.

Her heart leaped into her throat and she choked it down, afraid for what she might do if she let herself ride this wave of emotion that was buffering her, furious and unforgiving. Too much. "Hardly," she whispered.

He was still toying with the button and he slipped it free, now, moved to the next one, peeling back Scully's cotton shirt from her shoulders. She tensed, and he paused for a moment, looking at her with concern.

"No," she said, touching his cheek, pulling him into a kiss again. "It's okay."

She slid her arms free from her shirt and let Mulder crawl on top of her, kissing her shoulders, tracing a finger under the satin strap of her bra. She had never, never in her life wanted anything more than this, him, now, her hands wanted to be everywhere at once, on him, for him, Mulder, her partner, her best friend, her only friend, this body that reminded her that she was alive, this soul that told her till death he would protect her, this man whose intellect and insight shocked her, whose passion terrified her, whose spectral form, now hyper-human and looming over her brought her, shaking, to emotional knees. She found his waist, his skin hot to touch, and slid her hands up his chest, pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Their chests pressed together, flesh on burning flesh, dirty human smells of sweat and grimy skin, calloused fingers sneaking, groping, traversing familiar contours that were suddenly and gloriously everything like home.

 

Maybe the sun was rising or maybe it was streetlights off fog but something heavy and pink was happening outside, and it didn't matter because it was still raining. Scully lay on her side, Mulder's arms around her, her bare back pressed against his chest like it was meant to be there, her body curled into his like it belonged there, like they'd done this a thousand times before.

But this had been the first. She knew he wasn't sleeping, and he knew she wasn't, but still they lay in silence for nearly an hour, processing, taking in the presence of one another, the still shapes of bodies on bodies, unencumbered by words or movements.

Until she couldn't take it anymore, and spoke. "Mulder?"

"Mm hm?" He kissed the back of her neck.

"Nothing, I, uh..." she burrowed her nose into the crook of his elbow. "I just wanted to, uh..."

"Break the silence," he said.

"Yeah," she smiled. "Something like that."

"I know how you feel," he said.

"This is weird, Mulder. I don't know."

He pulled her more tightly to him. "It's weird. But everything about us is weird. Our whole relationship is based in weirdness."

She laughed softly. "When you look at it that way, this is the most normal thing we've ever done."

"Funny," he said.

They lay in silence for a while, enjoying the closeness.

"Scully," Mulder said. There was something different about his voice that made her spine go a little straighter, and she clutched his arms to her chest and held him close.

"Yeah, Mulder?"

"Oh, mm..." he said. "I don't know if...of course you know. You have to know."

"Have to know what?"

"You, uh, Scully, I love you."

Her heart stopped, her blood stopped flowing through her veins. She concentrated, felt her respiratory system shut down, her extremities go numb. As a doctor she knew she was fine, as a human being she saw the precipice, death just a leap away, the end of life as she knew it as close as three words. Had she known? Of course. Did it matter that he was saying it now? Her heart began to beat again, doublespeed, as she realized, yes, it made all the difference in the world.

"I know," she said, finally. "It, uh, it goes without saying, Mulder. It always has."

"I know, I knew that, I think, but somehow I had to say it, now, here. After what happened."

"Okay," she said, struggling to keep her voice level. "Okay."

"Okay," he said.

They lay still for a while, afraid to move, itching, losing circulation but sure that any movement, any stray touch would be misinterpreted, overinterpreted.

"And I know you don't feel the same way," Mulder said steadily, "and I've always known that too. But that's not the point."

The precipice; Scully saw herself in her mind's eye dancing toward it, spinning out of control to a soundtrack she didn't recognize, beautiful silent music dragging her unwitting to the edge. "No," she said at last. "It's not. The point. Mulder, I..."

Mulder wrested his arm out from under her, sat up, pulled her up beside him. "No, don't talk, for a minute. Please."

"Okay," she said, petrified.

"I, uh, I'm going to come back to work," he said. "It's in me, it's what I do, it's what I need to do. With you."

"I'm glad," she said quietly, and Mulder hushed her again.

"Please," he said. "This is hard, Scully, really hard."

She shuddered, reached for her shirt, pulled it over her shoulders.

"If I, uh, if we're working together, I can't let myself -" he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"This can't happen again, Mulder," Scully said, exhaling. Thank god. "I know that. It's against every rule the bureau has."

Mulder chuckled. "Yeah, bureau rules."

"But that doesn't mean it was a mistake," Scully said.

"Scully, it was the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me, and that scares me more than you can imagine," Mulder said with a heavy sigh. "It would be too easy for me to fall into this, to fall into a routine with you, and I can't afford to."

"The work would suffer if we did, Mulder. I would never want you to. I wouldn't want to myself."

"But that's not it, Scully. I mean, that's part of it, but there's more."

She gulped. "Okay," she said, her voice small and tinny.

"God, Scully," he touched her face, then looked away, somewhere up and off to the right. "I just, I can't take the responsibility. Of loving you. Because if I let something happen to you I wouldn't be able to forgive myself. But instead of having the balls to fight, I think, I'm afraid, if I let myself count on you and then I lost you I'd fall apart. And I..."

She looked up and caught his eye, brought him back to face her. "Mulder, it's okay," she said with a smile.

"When they took you away I hardly knew you, comparatively speaking," he said, with a glance at her half-naked form. "When Duane Barry took you to the, uh..."

"I know what you're saying," she bailed him out. "It was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was. But even then, even then I knew I respected you, knew without really knowing that you were important, that you were remarkable, that you were somehow necessary. To me. To all this. But I didn't let myself...I never resigned to the fact that you were really gone. I knew you'd fight, and I knew I'd fight for you. You're so strong, Scully, and I need that strength. And I don't think I..."

"Okay, Mulder," Scully said, struggling for composure. He was counting on her to be rational, now, and she would not let him down. It came off like a bad excuse but it made sense to her, too much sense. She'd realized it last night, too, but she'd ordered herself quiet. And now, as always, with everything, there were consequences. "It's okay. I understand."

"I'm sorry," he said, looking down. "We shouldn't have done this in the first place."

"Why not?" Scully asked, smiling, though her heart was breaking again, for a different reason, though, this time. For a better reason. She asked him why but she knew, and she ached for it. They should never have done this because now they knew what it was like, the unrivalable closeness, the meeting of minds sliding into the meeting of bodies, frustration and passion pent up for six years finally released, finally expressed, so powerful, and so shimmering fragile that it brought tears to her eyes, now, remembering.

"Because now we know," Mulder said aloud.

Scully bit her lip and ordered herself to smile. "Yes we do," she said. And then she broke her gaze away from his and let her eyes scan the floor, looking for her pants.

 

He walked her to the door, kissed her gently on the forehead as she ducked out into the corridor and turned around to face him.

"The sun's up," she said, glancing past him to the window. He turned to look.

She could tell he was searching for something witty to say but he was spent, used up, there were no more words. "Yeah," he said.

"Try and get some sleep, Mulder. We can talk tomorrow. We should talk about this, and figure out how we're going to carry on."

"We'll carry on," Mulder said with a wry smile. "It's gonna be a little itchy there in the beginning, but I think we'll get used to it. Well, you will. Me? I've got videotapes and cold showers."

Scully smiled. "Okay, Mulder. I'm going home now."

"Okay," he said. "Good night. Good morning. Whatever."

Scully turned down the corridor, feeling Mulder's eyes on her as she walked away. Maybe it was her delusory morning-afterness, or maybe it was the realization that this would never, could never, should never happen again, or maybe it was just the palpable sensation of his eyes on her back that stopped her dead in her tracks. She turned back around, squinted at him through one eye, tipped her head to the side like a bird.

"Hey Mulder," she called out in the pre-dawn of the hallway.

"Yeah?"

"I love you," she said. And whirling on her heel, leaving him in the doorway grinning stupidly, brilliantly, beautifully, she went home.


End file.
